steveston highway to hell

"Is it like having food poisoning all the time?" He asked, with eyes like an owl and intrigue on the mind.
"No, it's worse." She said. "It's like being poisoned by yourself. It's like the venom is coming from something within you—as if your heart was made of cyanide or your blood was the wrong type. It's like your lungs are on the outside of your ribs and every breath is a reminder of pain. It's like you have knots in your body, but no one to untie them. In a weird, twisted way it seems like it's your own fault. Because it begins and ends inside your body."
"Hm. Sight must be your dominant sense then." It seemed like an awkward time to bring this up now; something they had both learned years ago as psychology majors. Listen to the verbs, they were once told. Within 5 minutes the other person will have said enough for you to know what sense is their primary one.
"What? Am I like your client now? You're going to speak to me in my own language and be my Chuck Macknee?" She accused, misplacing his empathy for pity.
"No, I didn't mean... I just..." He wavered in his attempts to help. "I just meant that it must be hard to have no tangibles. To have nothing to hold and see and feel and to put all the blame on. Nothing to break if you want, to scream at, to blaspheme..it's just you. You are your own scapegoat."
"I'm not goat," she looked up. "I'm a sheep, for heaven's sake." She aggressively unhugged her legs, smacked the linoleum floor with her feet, and walked down the hall to the nearest toilet.